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Step by Step/Issue 31
This is Issue #31 of Step by Step. This is the first issue in Volume Six. Only Dream "What happened?" Malcolm awoke with a start, rubbing his eyes dry. He was slumped on a chair, eyes open at the middle when he heard the bedlam. Screams came from all directions. He didn't have the time to find out what was happening. Malcolm rose on thin legs, stumbling and nearly slipping. He went for his pistol and yanked it from the holster. It was a stiff cold though the back of his uniform was damp, and getting damper. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, and he noticed he teardrops on his cheeks. He dreamed of something, something close. A scream a bare two feet from where he was broke his trance. He marched out the room, taking a shooter's stance. Sweat dribbled down his face profusely. He was in the complete dark hallway and waited. Out of the blue someone tore up a window and sunlight broke through. An orange haze glazed over the rooms. Malcolm saw Wayne and the Davis man shuffle into a room carrying a body, then Joseph came tumbling up the stairs with another body. "They're everywhere! Damn it, coming from all–" Malcolm raced down the hallway and looked with terror. It was Carter. From what he saw, the man's face was bloodied and his lips had turned a purple. Splotches of crimson covered his chest and over his center mass. Malcolm grabbed Carter under the arms and dragged him into the room where the other body laid. "Is he dead?" Malcolm asked, gasping in large puffs. He was almost certain. "No." Joseph said, trying to sound sure. He pointed shakily at where Wayne and Jacob stood bedside. The two dispersed, one grabbing a blanket and the other throwing it over the other body. Malcolm saw them tug it over the lady's throat, where it instantly stained red. He looked down and there was a trail of blood leading from outside to the cot. And when he looked at Lilian again, the whole cot was drenched red. "Sergeant." Hector had stumbled into room, hands clenched on a shotgun. Behind him, a few faces who Malcolm couldn't distinguish. Hector's voice croaked out, and he grabbed Malcolm by the shoulder and hauled him out to the stairs. He bent the man over and made him look at what moaned beyond. A light, from a flashlight held by Amanda, shined down the stairs. Before Malcolm could think it over, he was stricken with horror. Six or eight people were shambling about. A many of them were going up the stairs. There was a crack of gunfire and one fell and tumbled downward. Malcolm gulped down what he saw. The scared man tried to inch away. A stiff infected came into view. It was a businessman, a large gash on his throat. Then from behind, and Joseph saw this with a perfect distance, a boy of about twenty shambling along. People screamed as the dead continued up. Malcolm aimed his pistol and fired once. The man's chest exploded into a shower of gore, yet still came on. The Sergeant took one step back and narrowed the gun again, pulling back the trigger only for the slide to lock back empty. "Shoot them in the heads!" Malcolm screamed as the first ranks of undead made it up. He fumbled with the gun, slid it back into his holster, mumbling in fear. As he prepared for the first ones, Hector's shotgun exploded and a crazy flew back down. Malcolm turned to him and said, "Thanks." "Don't mention it." Then, at the head of the stairs, two hands grabbed Hector's shoulder and spun him around. The crazy howled, and a bullet struck him under the collar. Malcolm never saw where it came from. The crazy backed up, his head jerked back, and lurched forward. Nose flared, eyes a milky white, and arms spread. he pounced at Hector. The two stumbled for a balance and rolled past Malcolm and into the floor. Malcolm quickly saw who it was, what it was. Alexander. Hector threw him off, and soon Hector saw. They all saw. "Jesus Christ." Malcolm landed on the wall, clutching his chest scared. The boy had become one of the things, drooling and grumbling. "Take 'em out!" Malcolm shouted at the cop, turning to the rest of undead shuffling up the stairs. He didn't know it, but Hector was paralyzed in fear. Alexander sloppily got his bearings and began to shamble at them. "No, not me!" Carter yelled from away, Joseph hauling him onto a chair. "Gonna be me, gonna be me!" "Shut him up," Malcolm said, his attention fully on the Alexander who was no more. The boy looked right through him, a wet moan slipping out his throat. Malcolm took a single step to the side, and Alexander did too. Malcolm grabbed a hold of him and pushed him back, screaming. "Take him out--" A shower of brain matter spurted from the back of the crazy's head, his eyes rolling back as his legs buckled and he fell backwards on his back. The Sergeant quickly turned his attention to the undead coming up, barely registering it all. As the undead reached the last steps, he didn't notice a door from behind him rumble in its hinges and fly open. There was a sickening smell in the air, and Malcolm was too into this game to quit. His nose wrinkled at the deathly smell. He looked at Hector, who was working his way up from the floor. Then, an infected man rushed at him, snarling. Malcolm got him by the arm, cringing when the man let out a churning gurgle, and then threw him back at the others. "Officer." Malcolm said. "Do not let them get through." "Where's the gal?" Hector asked, watching the crazies slither at them. He turned to Joseph. "You heard the man, shut that door and throw away the key." Dirty leather shoes shuffled on the floor. The infected came at them, a bloated man in the lead. He had these boils running down his neck, welts on the neck, and a tongue that flapped out his mouth. He snarled at Malcolm, and was about to attack when two slim infected dashed past him. Caught by surprise, Malcolm tried to sway to the side as the two jumped on him and they fell down on the floor. The police officer stood right beside them, and went at kicking them off individually. Too many kicks after, the two dazed up and fell off him. Hector stomped on one's back and they heard a gross crunching sound And like how a slug reacts when salt gets poured on it, the body spasmed and then stopped moving. The bloater came to them quicker than expected. Growling, he threw himself at Malcolm. Luckily the man had rolled to the side, finding himself away from the danger. But the battle wasn't over, still much to do. When Malcolm looked again at the bloated creature, his head snapped back and flopped onto the floor dead. "You're going to help here." Amanda spoke from behind them, and Hector saw she was talking to the three of the hellions. Malcolm was about to do something, probably yell, but settled his back on the floor and saw five or six of the crazed people making their way to him. He leaned his head back and screamed. Before he could blink, hands were on him and pulling every which way. It was only when he opened them that he saw Nolan was pulling him back. That was when he heard the crack of gunfire and saw two of the walking stiffs collapse over. A few of the undead ducked to the side. Derek Woods pulled up behind one of the stiffs, grabbing them by the head and bashed them into the wall. Dennis did the same. Was not pretty. By the time Malcolm had come up on both legs, Joseph and Wayne were on the other three. In a moment's time, the floor was littered with bodies, each gurgling their last breaths until they too were no more. Nolan dropped Malcolm by where Joseph was at, noticed a blooming-red cadaver in the room, and reeled in disgust. "What? What?" He shivered, frowning. The person, the body, is not a pleasant surprise. Ants walked along Nolan's skin; goosebumps down his arms and back. Nolan, staring with a strange awe, took steps toward the body. He saw Jacob Davis, bulk of a man he was. Check that off the list, not to brawl with the man pushing middle age. As he neared the bed, saw Lilian underneath, something struck him. A sickening smell pushed up his nose. A tingling in his stomach. Strange and appalling, he couldn't bear witness at her anymore. He got about as far as the door before he doubled over, hurling. It brought him into the past. During the sunset hours of a long-gone October day, Nolan been'd biking home for suppertime when he took a short cut through a funeral home. He reached the cemetery right when a white fog rolled in. It came moving fast, lashing against the rows of tombstones, spinning silky webs of white around the trees, settling over the auburn grass. The low sun kept shining behind him even after he crossed into the folds of the mist, and when Nolan looked back, all he saw was a blotchy orb of sunlight. Back in his early summers, the boys would tell tales about this funeral home. Sean Jeffrey, a kid who he'd tossed baseballs with, told of how his dad sometimes got paid for grave digging. There was a rule, his father told Sean, that if the diggers were working, and any of them hit something, they'd all run off the graveyard. Basically, someone's shovel would crack open a coffin, and the worst stench imaginable would follow. Mr. Jeffrey, who'd unfortunately struck one of the rotted boxes, told of how it was sour and made his eyes swell. Nolan had plowed straight across the churchyard. On him was a book bag, filled to the brim and loaded with porno. The farther he went, the deeper the fog became. It was Styrofoam white, acrid-smelling. By then, his hands clenched the handlebars of his bike hard enough that they had turned white. As he walked the bike down a steep incline, he had seen what seemed to be the outline of a tombstone, and he remembered his height shrunk by a foot. Little Nolan's leg had sunk deep into a hole, he remembered, right at the heart of a grave. That was when he smelled something different in the air. Sour and eye-swelling were the words to describe it. "Somebody kicked me in the balls," he said. A hand pressed onto his back. Jacob, standing over him like a meat-snatching black bear, pulled him up. "There you go, like what you see?" "Thank you. And no." "She's fresh," said Jacob, a bit too creepy for Nolan's potluck. "The body–''her's''–not sure what we'll do with it." That was when Ben Dunlap–either groggy or realizing what a shit time to take a nap he'd chosen–screamed crazy. Whatever his intentions were, perhaps to wake up the devil and Save him, they were silenced when Jacob went over to him and smacked him once. The man stopped screaming fuh-good. Years before, Jacob had seen the same look in the ER. ("Called the emergency room," he told Sarah once, "told em to get'er shittings done.") Nolan didn't quite figure the man out, never really would. Momentarily, Davis had his hands filled with Ben. Ben kept repeating, "My buddies, good buddies. They're comin for me!" Wiping his mouth, Joseph ran a hand through his hair. There was a lot of bodies, lines of them across the hall. He had no words for it, because sometimes things happen that can't be explained. He was about to settle it, but then a heard more groaning. A knot of infected came up, growling and growing. "I got blood on me!" he shouted, voice cracking with angst. A body thudded next to him. Dennis Johnson was there with it, scrambling up when he said, "I got your back." Sweat trickled down his face, his face covered with grime and grit, and shit. "No worries here." "You stomped that ass!" Derek said, tangling with his own dead body. It was dead like a mannequin, head craned to the side. Joseph, wordless, saw the bodies. He passed Nolan by a foot, and the two met at one–Alexander. The body was slumped in a two-foot tall pile, mashed together like peas in a can. Then Joseph said, "Damn, what's next." "Before I'd have an answer," Nolan said. "Now, not so." Joseph said, "How long will this last?" then specified: "Whatever this hellhole is." Nolan hadn't an answer. "I'm sorry," he said lamely. "Things happen. There was no delaying this." "How can you say that," Joseph said, watching closely the two other prisoners-of-war round up the bodies into mass piles, into gutters on the side. Joseph then spoke, "Look at all this,"–he swung his arm in a big arc–"You tell me something doesn't look right here." Nolan at first did not comment, and hoped he wouldn't. A sour smell wrinkled his nose like grapes set out for an afternoon blaze. He had never seen dead bodies like this, and had never planned to. He thought that, either bitter-smelling or shit-sniffing-bad, could have given a rundown of the stench. But no, now this was putrid. It was throbbing strange. From the side came Malcolm, the bloodied soldier, who was sniffing and coughing. "I got blood on my uniform," he said, and his hands shook. "That's the last of 'em, thank God." Back in his heydey, in the land of Baghdad, this would've been nothing special. Dark, harsh world. Malcolm then said to Nolan, "You're gonna get arrested." "Nah, I'm good." "Did you hear me?" "Why don't you do it then," Nolan goes, "and kiss my chicken bone ass." Malcolm didn't have it in him. Never had, never would. Nolan knew it, and Malcolm unfortunately didn't. He'd just have to let the shit-grinner do what he wanted to accomplish. "Well, it's Tuesday," Nolan said, taking a few steps to the far end. "I'm living. Breathing, and sorta alive. S'all good, so guess who wins." Lyle didn't need Nolan to tell him that. He heard from inside the room, a far near. A warm, damp rag was thrown over his chest like a bib. Around his midsection, a great burning was sweltering. He'd one day crossed a sidewalk, with a leather jacket on, and he had been robbed and snatched up that day. The burglar, must've been a short fucktwig, drove his elbow into Jackson's gut. A little lower, he'd been seeing purple. A short way higher, then he would have lost his appetite for life. Hits like those–the quick, full effect ones–do some damage. "Ring-a-ding ding ding-dong," he yapped, humbly playing tunes by himself. Gordon Black passed by his room, and darn was he in for it. "Ding ding, dong," then Lyle heard him, he's moaning terribly. Whatever he saw, in guerrilla terms, was the same as having rifles aimed at you. Lyle didn't scream from those nightmares he had, he did nothing. The musketeers aimed at Black's heart, on the chest. And then, screams from hell. "Just don't look at it," Amanda suggested. "Holy smoking hell crackers," Gordon wailed, and collapsed over entirely. He had witnessed tragedies like this before–some gruesome, others spine-tingling interesting–out in derbies. Some cranial fractures, other less-serious but not too-pretty bone fractures, ones that made forebones stick out at unpleasant angles. This was the hell of it. "Get me some paper towels," Malcolm said to Hector Pacino, twisting Nolan the devil's look. "And when you're done," he began, dusting himself off and massaging his lower back, "Toss me some Aspirin." "Look, mister," Nolan said. "You need to settle and speak to us." He went more specific, "Work things out with us four." "Just sit tight," the sergeant said. "We'll get you a pair of restraints." "Ugh, this is bullshit!" Nolan said, mere feet from the Guard. "Stop being a bitch, and gimme a goddamn minute. I'm tired of playing games with you, you stinking piece of shit. I want you to do me a favor, do us all a favor, and listen to this man, right there on the floor crying his balls out. So help me out, listen to him speak. And, while you at it, reconsider that arrest warrant." "Who?" "Yes," he said. "Him. Watch him babble, he'll tell you all about his good cocksuckin buddies." Ring-a-ding ding ding-dong. '' "Ding-dong," Carter said, sitting in the dark of the room. "The witch is dead!" Carter leaped up. His face was dirty and filthy like he'd drunken a can of bright red Bondo putty. "What's up with him?" Amanda asked, nobody really had a reply. Joseph pushed forward a couple steps, pumped handshakes with Carter. "How you feelin?" A month before, Carter would have said finger-lickin good. That was a much different time; Carter now looked crazy, nuts. At the moment, Joseph had no clue what Carter was. What evil he'd done, but time would tell. "God bless you," Carter smiled jollily, almost the way he would have done in the past. Joseph laughed. Who wouldn't have? ''Ding-dong. Carter grabbed Joseph, bent him forward, and whispered, "Blessed shoe." "What?" "Blessed shoe," he repeated, a bubble of phlegm in the back of his throat made a gurgling crackle. "Didn't you sneeze, blow out the green steam? Clear out the laundry. Dirty laundry." Carter shit-grinned at Nolan. "I have lots of it." Joseph looked to the others. Amanda shrugged, went for Carter, but he backed up. He was snickering. "What type of detergent must I have used," Carter moved, his left hand shaking and the other ruffling his hair. For a moment he was gone. "Do you know, officer?" Amanda shrugged. "Do you know, officer?" Hector shrugged too. The algal bloom in his throat made him cough, then his cheeks went slack and he said, "I'm super tired." "I hear you," Malcolm said, not at Carter, but to Ben, who was shuddering in Nolan's grab. "You're cocksuckin buddies are closer than I thought." Ring-a-ding. "I ain't sorry for the outburst," said Ben, "I'm having a real bad week." "How so?" "Dead are walking, friend." "Where are your friends?" "They ain't much my friends," he responded. "It's just a buddy of mine, some guy I know from town." "Why are you out here in the city?" "Finding supplies; finding people." "Which town?" "A good town. I've lived there all my life." "Called what?" "Smith's Ferry." "Smith's Ferry?" Ben craned his neck to Nolan—a move that chilled his spine—as Nolan continued to hold him still, and said, "Have you ever been to Smith's Ferry?" "He's a criminal," said Carter. "Ignore him," said Malcolm. "He's killed and he'll kill again." "Have you been to Smith's Ferry, criminal?" With a gulp, Nolan shook his head and politely smiled. It was a nasty habit of his that he had adopted as a liar. Some liars blush, other liars bite their bottom lip, and other liars scratch the back of their heads in worry. Nolan would gulp and politely smile. Nolan was not polite. He was a liar. A brazen, underlying liar. He knew the crazed man from Smith's Ferry. Ben Dunlap was a spanner-twisting worker at Federal Motors, a local repair shop in Smith's Ferry. To Nolan, it sounded vague. Too general, like General Motors. Standard Oil. Federal Motors, Nolan thought. Now that sounded familiar. "We can head for that town," Amanda said. "It's our best bet." "I agree," Malcolm said. Nolan gulped, in fear of what he knew—he politely smiled once more. ---- Wayne was finished, last one down the stairs. It was much later; a yellow sun bobbed outside the church. He was petrified to tears, carrying a cloth-wrapped log over his shoulder, feet-first. What irked him, was that he was trudging about the church with a corpse. It was the last of the cadavers, each of the ones before he had systematically laid across the pews. He made sure that Alexander faced the Redeemer. Still afternoon, sweet bliss in the air. He smelled it too. Wayne said, "I was never very religious." Jacob Davis was holding the kerosene lamp. He had stayed behind for a while. Unlike Wayne, who was shaking in his boots, he had seen dead bodies before, so this was no biggie. As a churchboy, he'd seen his uncle go six feet under. Not to mention, lots of roadkill in the dirt roads that stretched around his home. "I'm an Old Testament Christian." "You sound serious." Jacob shrugged, set down the lamp on one of the choir stands, and moved on. He pointed down the rows, "They're waiting." The others were. After the pair made it out, Malcolm greeted them both with handshakes. He seemed happier than before, maybe wasn't a morning person, or something. Carter stood where he had his feast at. Near the entrance, the Trouble Quartet–Lyle, Nolan, Derek, and Dennis–watched the events unfold with muzzle-fed glee. The two officers stood on either side of the group. Wayne looked around uneasily. Gory, gory. What a helluva way to die. Ben Dunlap was opposite of Malcolm, hands seized behind his back. He had barely resisted, for Pete's sake, he had even urinated himself from the fear. "I'll see that I get y'all there. Probably, we can get there soon, around dinnertime. It's a small town. You know what I mean. I got these guys coming in with guns, big ones like mine. At the most they'll bring five pieces but that don't mean they won't bring the big bad cavalry. Yea, soon. Another couple minutes." Malcolm reminded Ben he had, as of now, no hands. He served the short man a cold, reptilian stare. The fear came back, Malcolm smelled it on him. Nolan saw it and cringed. After all, they were all out here for the two repairmen. As it turned out, by the most horrific of odds, Nolan knew the haven. A haven, that's where Ben and his goonies had come from. Not the black lagoon, as Derek had said a while ago. The soldier looked at Nolan and said, "You're lucky. I was going to restrain Jackson and you. If that had caused any altercations, under my watch of course, the other two dumbbells as well." Nolan, puzzled, allowed Malcolm to go on: "Once we arrive, I am going to speak with the military officials there–''no bullshitery''." He paused. "I think you and your posse will be good enough to pool together with us on this journey." He sounded like a damn politician. Nolan said nothing, but Lyle smirked–no shit-grinning, this was the real deal. No one spoke, because this really was happening. "They're some right sonsofabitches," Gordon said, and he was sitting on a bench at the door. He didn't look like the happiest fellow. As a fact, he couldn't have been after knowing two cars had suddenly grown feet and walked off. "The both of them were jacked up. Gone up and rode off, and I'd be damned to say I'm not the least surprised." "Told you," Dennis said from behind Derek. Said: "You called bullshit and that's what you get. We three saw em lickity split up the road and disappear." "My good buddies," Ben said and nearly made Malcolm jump. "They're comin in those wingbats of yours. Watch em, hook em, and shit lick em." Dennis furrowed his brows and looked him over. "Gung-ho, sensai." There was a blaring siren. Wee-ooo, wee-ooo, wee-ooo. Malcolm heard it first, head cocked. The siren got louder, and he was soon intrigued. Of course, he could have been hearing things. Couldn't be too certain these days. With the dead awake, he had no reason to think otherwise. He figured that, if he thought about it long, he'd end up tearing out his hair frustrated. "Mister," Derek said with a certain pitch in his voice. "I keep wanting to ask you what you gonna do when we get there. Really, lockin us up." He said it like he was begging. "Fuckin as if!" Carter shouted and went over to them. He'd been a football jock. Buff set, hard face. Now, to Derek, he looked him with dark, ringed eyes. "You'll come with us, all right. That is, straight to the town jail." "Are you kidding? You think a little bad apples or a few mean something in a disaster." He was ignoring Carter's annoyed look and was looking to the Guard ringleader. "We tread lightly, we cooperate." Lyle Jackson, half-risen from slumber, smacked his lips. He was rubbing his chest, groping his neck, and feeling his gums start to numb up. The same thing had come about in his tobacco-spittin days-from the eighth of a September to an October that was dry as sawdust in the redness of hell-though, those months had come with numb gums. From store corners to night-lurking hangouts, he'd whip out a can of Kodiak and drip it between his gums. Usually now, believe it or not, the thought of tobacco dip made him shiver from lips to his toes. He had lost two teeth from it, one in the far back and another in the corner. Now that he thought about it, he wondered if Derek had ever rubbed a handful of Red Man (odds are fair, it was Indiana after all). The gaunt man did have that haunting look on him, coupled with the fact his cheeks sunk into his face whenever he took a breath. The day had been well so far. So far so good, he thought. He patted the midnight oil in his pocket. It was nice in the shade, where a clay-cold wind blew. For him, at least, today was a good day. Hadn't been for the barnkid, hadn't been for the first-responder. Bizzare. He felt strange now. He was working at his chest, all colors of black and blue. Rubbing it didn't seem to please it–rubbing sweet, cancer-boiling tobacco seemed nice right now–but he wouldn't lose any sleep over it. He looked around. Dead zone, he thought again. That scared him. Lyle fidgeted with his chest once more, groaned, and glanced at Derek. The man'd tucked the revolver into his belt at the small of his back. Lyle could see it. He wondered, damned if he didn't, whether Derek knew that they were in troubled waters. Malcolm, so far, wasn't budging and sure as dirt from mud was going to go through with his intentions. Course, Lyle thought and once more smacked his lips, trouble shared is a trouble halved. Lyle started to nod on his own will and then heard three warning blares: wee-ooo, wee-ooo, wee-ooo. Something moved out of the blue. Down the street. He saw two cars, one filled with heartache. Vulnerable, he thought. That really scared him. ---- Randy sat on a nearby street corner with a grin. He was sitting against a red wall lined with graffiti. He hadn't taken to looking at them, barely even glanced when he sat down. That was before, when morning had broken. It was noontime, and noontime meant business. Some lurkers pranced around the street. He didn't mind them; he was thinking about the last time he'd tasted a burger. It was strange, a weird feeling to it that he couldn't understand. When he and Flaco had ridden over to the city after setting down game plans, they had stopped by a food joint. Flaco, the scrawny-elbowed person he was, ordered for booze and Slim-Jims. Randy, on the other hand, bought and ate himself a dripping, hot hamburger. As the phrase did go, feast of flesh for the beast of flesh. “What I think I'll be doing is,” Randy started to pitch his idea, “stop by the food depot, round back to 21st Street, and meet you back here at eight o'clock. You can do anything you want. Today's the now, tomorrow's the then. Think about it.” Randy adjusted his crotch. “All's well,” Flaco had answered, “but I'm not in for much.” Randy laughed. He is laughing now. The dead lingering about just can't figure him out, so they're bones start laughing too. Randy heard them coming, but he was having too much fun. He was in for it. “But time runs off a sun dial,” Randy said getting up. “Can't spend it on things like these. I either talk to the dead or make a break for it.” He had a bottle in his hands, filled up halfway with kerosene. One of the fathers in the group was closest. “You get what I mean, meat-snacker.” He turned and saw a big red CLOSED sign on the wall. Was not a store, but more wall. He'd seen a lotta these in the past, but was now scarce. For a moment, it looked abstract and all angles. A pentagram, crossed against the middle with the word. In the center he saw a ram's head. He studied it for a moment, hand over his chest and rubbing where the darkness hid. Right-o, he saw some dickwad's name scrawled into the wall. Last name rhymes with hurry. It rang the biggest of bells between his ears. It was the beer-drinking fella back at the school. Oh, he was one with hell to pay. Randy hadn't, even though he had tried his very, very best, seen Jose go down. All he had seen, all he saw, was his pal dead in the crumbling hallway. He had left when the fire became rain, shooting like fireworks in wisps of red and orange. But that stingey sonofabitch, he had heard his name aplenty. Swore he had seen him too, moving through and out the school. What followed, he'd seen as well. The man'd jigged up with some others, the ones Randy knew had shot his pal dead. Pow, one to the head. “One good just punch to the colon,” Randy said, “and I'll leave you swollen, Nolan.” Randy popped his thumb up and pointed at the wall. "Bwahaha!" The burning of rubber filled the air. He was off, slipping a gun into his hands. He was out in the open, a predator dangling from view. This was open season, and he was hunting down game. Randy moved on, off the curb and down the street. He was walking, with sun soaking on his back, and an everlasting grin smeared on his face. As he moved on, following the warning bells near the church, he had one sensible thought. Welcome to the Jungle. 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